Antigone
by Cathartes
Summary: Between the living and the dead, there can be no competition.
1. Antigone

_I do not own the mentalist and am making no profit from this work of fan-fiction_

Please note that this is significantly less fluffy than my other Mentalist fics . . .

**Antigone**

**).().().().(**

_I talk to my wife all the time. _

"Hey Baby. It's late. I can't sleep. Is that what you're doing, sleeping? I like to think of it that way – and tomorrow I'm going to wake up and you'll be in the kitchen squeezing oranges, and you're going to say, I had the strangest dream last night. And I'll say, that must have been some dream, because I could hear you talking in your sleep and it kept me awake. Every time I would start to drift off, I'd hear your voice. And you'll say, sorry about that, and I'll say, no, I didn't mind, really. And I don't mind. I would rather be with you than – I would rather be with you . . ."

In the end, the CBI caught Red John off a tip Lisbon discovered, a relative of Hardy's who claimed to have met him once. Jane isn't sure he can forgive her for that. She had it and she kept it from him, no doubt hoping to keep him safe, to keep him from going off the rails.

_If you try and do violence to him, I will try and stop you. If you succeed in doing violence to him, I will arrest you._

So, she had made her choice. And he is happy for her – no, really, he is. He has watched her wavering, in the past years, between her belief in the law, and the attraction of his own particular brand of justice. And she has chosen the side of the righteous. He's proud of her.

He invites himself over to her house. He brings a bottle of wine he's guessing she won't drink. (She is suspicious of beverages offered to her, now. It won't help her). She is wary as she opens the door, but she still lets him in; perhaps she is tired of fighting.

It has to be her apartment, because her brain will remember how easy it was before, and she will feel safe. She won't resist. And she doesn't.

_Tragedy is clean, it is restful, it is flawless . . . in tragedy, nothing is in doubt and everybody's destiny is known. That makes for tranquility.  
The reason is that hope, that foul, deceitful thing, has no part in it. There isn't any hope. You're trapped.  
_ - _From Antigone, by Jean Anouilh as translated by Lewis Galantiere_.

I'm going to count backwards, he says. Ninety-eight, ninety-seven, nintety-six.

Jane –

Shh, Lisbon. Ninety-five. You're relaxing. Just like before. Remember how good that felt? How peaceful? You can go back to that moment, can't you, Lisbon. Ninety-four, ninety-three . . .

It would be nice to tease her again, maybe ask her something embarrassing (_do you ever imagine . . ._) but unfortunately, he's not in a teasing mood tonight.

I'm going to ask you some questions, and you tell me the truth. Like we're in court, okay? Will you tell me the truth?

Okay, says Lisbon, her voice faint.

Good, that's good. You helped them catch Red John?

Yes.

They arrested him yesterday?

Mmm-hmm.

So where is he now?

She hesitates. _A hypnotized saint is still a saint. _

Remember, you're on the witness stand, Jane prompts. Can you see the lawyers? You're looking at the jury. Where is he now?

He's in overnight holding. At central booking.

Good, good, Lisbon. Good. And how do you get into central booking, hmm? You have a pass to get in?

Yes, says Lisbon, her voice soft. I can sign in.

Good, says Jane. So, we'll go to central booking and sign in. He closes his hand around her wrist.

She is shivering – he helps her into her coat, buttoning it up the front for her like he is getting a child ready for school. It is this thought that allows him to continue, this thought and the memory of a certain bright pink jacket with square plastic buttons.

When we get inside, you tell them that you need to speak with him for a second. Show them your ID. Tell them his lawyer will be joining us, okay? If anybody asks any questions, you just tell them to call Sam Bosco. We just need to buy ourselves a little time –

They will be watching on the cameras, but Jane doesn't care about that. Okay?

Okay . . .

Ninety-two, says Jane. Ninety-one. Her eyes glaze as she sinks into a deeper trance. Last time, he remembers, she slumped against his chest, but this time he thinks ahead and loops one of her arms around his neck to scoop her up. She doesn't weigh very much, he notes. He holds her head against his shoulder as he makes his way to the car.

"Hey Sweetheart, me again. It's really late, I know, I'm sorry for bothering you. Am I keeping you up? I hope not. I just haven't been sleeping. Funny how it happens. All day long I'm so tired, I pretend I'm lying in bed next to you, I close my eyes for just a second on the couch at work and when I wake up an hour has passed – and then when night comes and I get into our bed, I just lie awake all night. Hmm. Well, say Hi to Peanut for me, okay? Tell her daddy loves her. No, I can't talk to her right now. No, don't put her on, it's late, she should be in bed. Yes, I'll talk to her tomorrow. I should go, I'm still at work – no, I won't stay up too late, don't worry. Goodnight. Love you."

Okay, Lisbon, time to wake up. We're here.

She comes out of it slowly, her eyes blinking. He helps her out of the car, locks the doors behind them and then tucks the key into her pocket. Ready? He waves a hand in front of her face but she doesn't track the movement. She is still under. C'mon, honey, let's go. We're going inside.

Her voice is hesitant, testing the answer. Okay?

Okay. For no reason that he understands, he takes her hand and twines his fingers with hers. He gives her a reassuring squeeze. She walks slowly at his side, and he wonders what she sees: the rain-soaked parking lot, or some happy private place of her own? He hopes the latter. He would like to make her happy, for a moment at least.

The night clerk looks at him suspiciously, but Jane stands back. He hopes there will not be any trouble. It is tricky getting someone to lie under hypnosis.

Lisbon plays her part, her eyes expressionless. Her signature, Jane is interested to note, does not match her ID. But her face still matches the picture, so the clerk points her wordlessly towards the overnight holding cells.

Come along, my dear, says Jane. Lisbon offers no protest, shuffles after him. Later the clerk will describe this scene perfectly, in court.

They come to a long white hallway, flanked by a row of barred doors. The furthest cell is the one he's been waiting for.

He takes her hand and leads her to the corner. She is calmer when he is touching her, but if he moves away he feels her anxiety rising again. Gently, he takes her by the shoulders and turns her around, with her back to the room.

Stay here, okay? She makes a soft, unhappy sound, but the trance is so deep, she cannot refuse him. He strokes her shoulder, gently. Good girl, he hums. He knows she will never forgive him for this. He does not expect her to. He just wants to leave her with one good memory.

You're in a safe place, Lisbon, he whispers in her ear, molding himself against her back. You're standing on the beach. He comes around to face her, staring into her cloudy eyes. A safe, happy, place. Can you hear the waves? The crying of the gulls? Picture it so clearly that you can taste the salt.

Her expression clears. Yes, she says. She trusts him. _She trusts him_. He lifts her chin, leans down to gently press his mouth to hers. This far under, she is slow to respond, but eventually he feels her press back against him, give a quiet hum of pleasure. He strokes her soft, smooth cheek, presses gentle kisses against her lips, her temple. He realizes, for the first time, maybe, that he loves her.

Don't listen to anything but the sound of the waves, he tells her, hating how quick his own breath sounds. When you wake up, you're going to feel at peace, okay? Stroking her shoulder, he turns her back around. Stay here, he whispers. Be good.

The man in the cell is just a man, an ordinary looking person that you would pass on the street and think nothing of. His face is perfectly empty.

_I'm going to cut him open and then watch him die slowly, like he did with my wife and child._

Jane – says Lisbon. Her voice sounds far away.

Shh, Teresa. Shhh, don't ruin it.

Jane?

"Hi Sweetheart, I'm here – I'm sitting right next to you. I guess after all this time there's only one thing I really wanted to tell you, in the end. Even if you answered me, just once, there's only one thing I would say, out of all the words in the world . . . I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _so sorry _. . ."

Jane has her gun, he took it from her dresser before they left. It is not a butcher-knife, but it will have to do. And he has nowhere to go – just a fish in a barrel. It is too easy, after all this time.

Jane?

He has only precious seconds to spare before the guards burst in, tearing him away – too late, too late. Jane is laughing as he is wrestled to the bloody ground, high-pitched, hysterical laughter. One of them grabs Lisbon's shoulder and hauls her around, but her eyes are blank, her face is blank, even when they try to shake her awake.

Jane makes no effort to help them revive her. The beach is so beautiful this time of year.

Let her sleep.

_I go to my rock bound prison, strange new tomb – _

_Always a stranger, o dear God_

_I have no home on earth and none below_

_Not with the living, not with the breathless dead _

- Antigone, by Sophocles (trans. by Robert Fagles)


	2. Ismene

**).().().().(**

_I was born to join in love, not hate -  
__that is my nature.  
- Antigone, by Sophocles (trans. by Robert Fagles)_

_._

A/N: I wrote the previous piece as a one-shot, and it stands on it's own - this is kind of like an optional, alternate ending, because it got stuck in my head:

.

.

At the arraignment, Lisbon speaks slowly and calmly.

The prosecutor's questions cast her in an unflattering light (and strongly imply she'd been sleeping with Jane), but Lisbon doesn't rise to the bait; No, I never suspected . . . Yes, our relationship was always professional . . . Yes, completely by surprise.

She doesn't spare Jane and she doesn't spare herself. She tells the absolute truth, as a salute to her old self, a last lonely tribute to her spotlessly upright career. The only thing she leaves out is the memory – hazy and half-recollected – of him kissing her, the taste of his mouth like salt. Everything else, she repeats verbatim; cool, collected Agent Lisbon.

She can remember awakening, the sensation like coming up for air after being underwater. A sense of peace, contentment, and then the crashing realization . . .

It is determined that the crime meets the standard of "malice aforethought."

After some debate, it is determined that the crime does not meet the standard of being "especially heinous, atrocious, or cruel, manifesting exceptional depravity," given the mitigating circumstances.

At her request, the charge of "assaulting a federal agent" has been dropped.

Jane does not testify in his own defense. It seems wrong for a man who can work a room as well as he can, but the person sitting across from her is not Jane, anyway: he stares at his own hands, making no eye contact. There is no one home.

His lawyers make a plea-bargain in which he pleads guilty to manslaughter on the basis of diminished capacity. He is sentenced to 30 years.

She is surprised that nobody seems to blame her. Nobody offers even one word of reproach, at least not to her face. How could they not blame her? She blames herself. She leaves her letter of resignation on her desk. Before she closes the door, she loops her mother's cross around the doorknob.

She does not leave a forwarding address.

From Sacramento to the coast is a two hour drive, if you concentrate on where you are going and beat traffic. It takes Lisbon, who drives without a plan, ten hours to end up there. She can't remember stopping for gas, but the somehow the tank is full.

She takes Route 1, keeping the ocean on her right-hand side. She drives slowly, leisurely, seeing nothing, thinking about nothing.

She leaves her car in a parking lot in Salinas and never goes back to it. Her cell phone is inside.

She finds herself on a bus, heading South. It occurs to Lisbon after several stops that she has actually fallen asleep without realizing it, and now she doesn't know what station is next. It doesn't seem to matter. When it grows dark she turns her face away from the window, and the next thing she knows is the sun rising over LA.

She stays on the bus until her seatmate tries to start a conversation, and then she gets off at the next stop. It turns out to be San Clemente, a surfing town with an assortment of young, aimless people who hang around the beach.

She decides to stay.

A busker on the street gives her directions to a youth hostel, a crappy silo of bunks and knapsacks. She rents a cot, stretching the definition of "youth" beyond all credibility. Among all the other drifters, she is relieved to be anonymous.

During the days that follow, she watches the surfers frolic in the waves, watches the girls in bright-colored bikinis like flocks of tropical birds. The sun feels good on her face. The sight of the sailboats rocking on the ocean reminds her of sex.

She doesn't sleep any more. It's not nightmares, or nerves – she is simply never tired enough to sleep for more than a few hours. She wakes up restless, driven to putter about. Whatever demon inhabited Jane, he has transferred the possession to her.

She falls in with Matteo, 23, none too bright, but great in bed. She likes to watch him surf. He is unsurpassed. Do you want me to teach you? he asks.

That's okay.

Don't you want to try?

No, says Lisbon, not particularly. And yet she needs him so badly, lying underneath him while he pounds away, hoping he will transfer some of his life energy into her.

A letter arrives. It has obviously passed through many hands, as the envelope is dirty and smudged. How could anyone have gotten this address? She barely knows where she is, herself.

She recognizes the writing. She throws it away.

Six weeks later it is a postcard, harder to handle without reading it. The first line is inescapable as she takes it to the trash: _I didn't believe you'd really left until I called the office and got Cho – _

She opens her fingers and watches it drop into the can.

She leaves the hostel to hole up in Matteo's ratty apartment. They stay in bed all day, smoking pot. This is the best place on earth, he tells her, right here. The center of the universe.

Eventually, she thinks, she will run out of cash.

One day Matteo tells her, over the bowl of popcorn they are eating between them, that a friend called here, looking for her.

Who?

I figured someone must've got pinched for dealing, `cuz the operator said it was a prison . . .

What did he want? Her voice is blank, flat. Unfamiliar in her own ears.

Asked how you were doing. Told me to take care of you. Said he'd talk to you soon.

The next morning Lisbon makes Matteo's favorite breakfast, _huevos rancheros__. _When he kisses her, he tastes of jalapeños. Come to the beach, he tells her, the waves are unreal.

Unreal.

I'll be along, says Lisbon. I just want to finish cleaning up.

When he is gone, she takes up her satchel from the kitchen table and walks out the door.

The train to Encinitas is delayed. She waits at the station, humming tunelessly. She breaks her last twenty on the ticket.

It is afternoon when she arrives, and 4th street takes her directly to the sand. She leaves her shoes behind, can't remember where. Although she is not hungry, she buys a hotdog from a vendor. Four dollars left. She starts walking, parallel to the water.

She watches a game of beach volleyball. She watches lovers making out under the pier. She watches a family building a sandcastle – mom, dad, and a little girl. She sits on a bluff and watches the sun set slowly, scorching the water vivid pink. She follows the last crimson gleam until it disappears.

The water is dark and restless. A sea breeze picks up, chilly.

She feels her eyelids drooping and suddenly she is exhausted. She would like to curl up here in the sand and sleep for days. Maybe when she wakes up, she will find herself in another world.

Maybe she is already asleep.

That's the truth, Lisbon realizes; _she's still asleep. S_he's still in the basement of central booking, under a spell.

She stumbles down the strand, kneels in the surf, trying to decide if the sensation feels real. If this is all a dream, she can still wake up. When a big wave knocks her backwards, she lets it happen, breathing in water**. **In another minute she will open her eyes and find herself back in her old life - Jane's not a murderer. She's not a failure. None of it happened. She feels the sand sliding out from underneath her and willingly follows it out, although she's coughing now, gritting her teeth. The waves seem to come from all directions, eager and hungry. She can't tell the black water from the black sky, so she keeps her eyes closed. She chokes on brine.

Any second now, if she can just hang on . . .

Strong arms hoist her up, breaking the surface. She is pulled backwards, back to shore. She is on her knees in the sand, gasping, her dark hair streaming down. A broad hand bushes it back out of her face. "Little fool," says Jane.

She stares up into his face, uncomprehending. He helps her to her feet, half-drags, half-carries her up the beach. "I have a room here," he tells her, guiding her up a flight of stairs, through a door way. Lisbon moves mutely, not questioning, not wondering.

She is swaddled in a thick dressing gown. Jane is toweling her hair. "Did it work?"

"What?"

"Is this real?" She looks up to see if it is really him. He looks exactly the same, although it has been months (how many months?). He has her sitting in his lap, and when she looks down she finds he is wearing a terrycloth robe as well (wonders for a second if he is wearing anything underneath it).

She buries her face in his shoulder and breaks into sobs.

"Shh. Teresa, shh."

"You're – you're in prison." Isn't he?

"Oh, I have someone filling in for me. Just for a few days." His hand is on the back of her head, tangled in her hair. "You know how it is."

_Why not, _thinks Lisbon. He's escaped before. "But . . . how did you know where I was?"

"Ah – well. You weren't reading any of my letters. I had to employ other means of getting in touch with you."

"You've been following me?" She closes her eyes as he begins to finger-comb her hair, which has grown long.

"Just since you got on the train." His fingers catch, and she winces away.

"It's the saltwater," she explains. "Makes it coarse." She hears him grunt in acknowledgement, working to seperate the strands, but the ends are knotted. Very gently, he pulls them apart. It still hurts.

"Forgive me, dear."

Lisbon has never heard him call her that; usually he says 'my dear' in a way that she has always interpreted as mostly sardonic. His voice now is low and sincere. "You're not the same," she says. "As you were, I mean. The last time I saw you."

"No, I'm not the same."

She thinks about this for a while.

"Did it help?" she asks. He knows what she means.

"Yes. No. I don't know. I don't hear them any more." He puts his face in her neck. "It's like losing them all over again."

This close to him, he is overwhelmingly warm; she can't resist burrowing into his front, the soft thick folds of cotton. This doesn't make any sense. She hates him. "You ruined my life."

"I know," he tells her, muffled in her hair. His arms slide over her back, rest at her waist.

"If you think I'm going to help you get away . . ."

"No, you wouldn't do that, would you?" Jane pulls back and smiles down into her face. "That's my girl."

She tries not to think about this. "So what are you going to do?"

"Oh, I think I'll go back to jail for 30 years," Jane says, now sliding his hand up and down the length of her spine. "One down, 29 to go."

"25 if you demonstrate good behavior," says Lisbon, "which you won't."

"I might." Jane presses his mouth to hers and the memory of their kiss rushes back to Lisbon, who in spite of herself turns her face up to his and kisses him back, fiercely.

"You ruined my life," she tells him, again. "Don't you see that we both suffer, when you hurt yourself?" she swallows back a sob. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"It won't be so bad," Jane promises. He presses his lips against her cheeks, reacquainting himself with the shape of her face. "I'll write you letters. You could come visit."

"I'll never visit you there."

"Okay, then, you go prepare for our retirement."

"Our _retirement?_"

"Life begins at 65," said Jane, biting gently at her neck. "If I'm eligible for parole. You know I'll expect to have a _casa_ prepared for me."

She presses back against him, her mind going momentarily blank. Focus, Lisbon. "A _casa_?"

"Of course. You've been heading South, haven't you? So many small border towns, needing a Sheriff."

She expected him to try convincing her to return to the CBI. She has been planning the exact words for her refusal. This, she has not planned. "My Spanish sucks," she grumps.

"You've got a lot of time to learn."

She turns to face him, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Jane," she whispers, searching his eyes. She still can't tell when he's being sincere. It doesn't matter as much as it should - this is all she has wanted, all she ever wants. "I love magic tricks," she confesses, pulling his head down to whisper in his ear; "Make me disappear."

He meets her kiss for kiss, his hands roaming over her back, stroking, pinching. But before she finishes working the knot of his robe, he catches her hand, pulling it up to his face, pressing it against his cheek. "We can't, tonight," he tells her, and she feels the words through her palm.

"What?"

Jane pulls her back down to lie against him, and his hands turn tender and soft. "Not like this, when I'm leaving tomorrow."

"What other night do we have?"

"There'll be another night," he promises.

She shakes her head. "Jane, it's such a long time . . . how do you know we'll ever see each other again?"

"This is how I know," he says, holding her tightly against his chest. "Right here. You won't get shot by some _coyote_ out there in the desert, and I won't get shanked in the laundry room, because you know I'm coming, and we'll be together."

She sighs and leans against him, closing her eyes. "Oh," she says. This might not be real, she thinks, just for a second, before the thought darts away again. It doesn't seem to matter. "Okay."

They rest.

_The mighty words of the proud are paid in full_

_with mighty blows of fate, and at long last_

_those blows will teach us wisdom._

_-_ Antigone (Chorus), by Sophocles, as trans. by Robert Fagles


End file.
